


Warrior

by K_Oss



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Excessive Hand-Holding, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Doubt, Twinkies, nightsilver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Oss/pseuds/K_Oss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt can't help but feel that he wasn't supposed to be here.  Peter tries to convince him otherwise.  (Set during X-Men: Apocalypse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first foray into the Nightsilver fandom (I happen to think that these two would make adorable friends and/or lovers), as well as my first post to AO3. I do have a few more that I'm working on, so please let me know what you think! (Also, I'm not so used to tagging stuff, so let me know if there is anything important you think I may have missed. Thanks!)

**Warrior**

                He wasn’t supposed to be here.

                His tail tapped anxiously against the base of his seat, and his hands clutched the armrests in a death grip, his fingers turning a paler shade of blue from the pressure.  His pulse was racing, his breathing was uneven, and his mind would not let up, repeating in an endless litany that _he was not supposed to be here._

                Even the Hero—Mystique, he supposed he should be referring to her as Mystique now—the one who had saved him, the one who had gathered them, the one who was readying them for _war_ , kept looking at him like she wished he were anywhere but here, with them.  Kurt had the distinct feeling that if time were not of the essence, she would have asked the other blue one to stop the jet and drop him off somewhere along the way.  He couldn’t blame her, either.  He was not a warrior, like she was.  He was a performer, at best; at worst, a circus freak.  He would be worse than useless in this battle. 

                He should never have left home.

                He let out an involuntary little whimper, and then he felt a soft touch on his right hand.

                “Hey,” said the silver-haired young man sitting next to him—Peter, his brain supplied helpfully, he had said his name was Peter.  Brown eyes bore into him, eyebrows knitted with concern and enquiry.  “You doin’ okay there, blue guy?”

                Kurt’s face burned at having been caught out, but Peter had at least been considerate enough to keep his voice low.  The others wouldn’t be able to hear over the thrum of the jet engines.  He found himself thankful for their noise, and for the other’s discretion.  

                “Ja,” he murmured back, turning away to stare resolutely at the floor.  “I am fine.  It is… I am not used to flying, that is all.”

                He had hoped that the other would drop it, but of course, he had never been so lucky.  “Oh yeah?  You’re not gonna puke on me, are you?  ‘Cause I mean, I’m kinda digging this badass new flight suit, and I’d hate to get it all grossified so quickly…  Maybe you can aim at four-eyes over there, yeah?  Because no lie, that would be _hilarious_.” 

                Kurt let out a choked little laugh, letting himself look back up at the other man in his surprise.  Peter grinned at him, his smile just a bit lopsided in a way that Kurt found quite charming.  At some point while the other had been talking, that light touch on his hand had turned into a full, warm grip, gentle fingers wrapping around Kurt’s reassuringly.  Kurt wasn’t sure how he had pried his hand from the armrest, but it felt… nice.  He let himself smile back, fangs peeking out from between blue lips.

                “There, that’s better, huh?” Peter asked, still smiling that crooked smile.  “Now, you gonna tell me what’s really up, man?”

                Kurt hesitated, glancing nervously across the plane.  Mystique had her eyes closed, resting up before the battle, not terrified at all.  Scott and Jean were engaged in their own whispered conversation, and Kurt got the distinct feeling that he should avert his gaze from what appeared to be a private moment.  He did so, and once again found warm brown eyes staring expectantly at him. 

                “I…  I don’t think I should be here,” he confessed quietly, his eyes darting back towards the others.  Peter frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. 

                “Why do you say that?  Got a party to get to?  No offense, but I’m _sure_ they’ll forgive you for skipping out, buddy.”

                Kurt tilted his head, considering the other.  “…Your mind is very strange, mein freund,” he said slowly. 

                Peter laughed, his feet kicking out in front of him.  “Yeah, so I’ve been told,” he agreed cheerfully.  “But seriously, what gives?  You not feeling the whole ‘flying-into-danger-and-ridiculously-bad-odds’ deal we’ve got going on here?”

                “I…  I want to _help_ ,” Kurt said, struggling only slightly to find the words he needed in English, to organize them in to something that made sense.  “But I am not a fighter.  I will only get in the way.  I only used my powers to fight for the first time a few days ago, and it was… it was _horrible_.”

                Peter hummed thoughtfully, his foot tapping against the floor.  His fingers squeezed Kurt’s gently, reassuringly.  “But you won, right?” he asked after a short moment, his voice soft.  “You’re still here.  You won, and you survived because of it…  Maybe you’re more of a fighter than you think.”

                Kurt shook his head vehemently.  “Nein.  I am not a fighter, not a… not a _warrior_ , like her,” he said, jerking his chin towards Mystique.  “And I cannot move things with mind like Jean, or destroy them like Scott.  My power is _defensive_.  It is not for fighting.  It is for _fleeing_.”

                Kurt’s shame burned through him—admitting his weakness, his uselessness, was almost more than he could bear… but Peter just laughed.  Not mocking, even.  Just cheerful, like Peter was. 

                “Well, we’ve got that much in common, huh?” he said easily, and Kurt flushed purple as he realized that he may have just accidentally insulted the other boy.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but we’re all just a merry band of misfits here.  Scott and Jean?  Powers or not, they’re just kids.  The big blue dude is a huge freakin’ _nerd_ , let me tell you, and the secret agent lady just kinda stumbled into this.  But we’re still gonna fight, using whatever we’ve got.”  His eyes shone as he leaned in extra-close, enough so that Kurt flinched back a little, unused to being in such proximity with another human being, but enjoying the little thrill of warmth it sent through him nonetheless.   “And what we’ve got is one surprisingly badass blue elf.  So yeah.  You’re _definitely_ supposed to be here."

                Kurt’s pulse pounded in his ears, his tail swishing frantically back and forth, but Peter didn’t so much as blink.  He seemed so _certain_ , so sure of Kurt’s abilities.  His strength.  Absently, he remembered that this… remarkably _strange_ man had just recently saved an entire mansion full of children, had barely broken a sweat doing so.  He had _protected_ them.  And he wanted Kurt here.

                And maybe, even if he wasn’t a fighter, he could be a protector, too.

                He squared his jaw and nodded, letting determination settle over him like a blessing.  Peter, seeming to sense the shift, quirked another grin at him and settled back against his seat. 

                “Besides,” he continued, “I think it’s about time I use my powers for something other than kicking ass at solo ping-pong and stealing enough Twinkies to live on for a decade.”

                Kurt nodded, then tilted his head in confusion.  “…What is a Twinkie?”

                Peter stared at him for several long seconds, and Kurt squirmed in his seat, wondering if he had said something wrong.  Then, suddenly, Peter was no longer sitting next to him, and Kurt’s face was being held uncomfortably against the hard breastplate of a flight suit as arms rocked him back and forth.

                “You poor thing,” Peter exclaimed, sounding genuinely upset.  “You poor, sweet, deprived soul!  Don’t you worry, we will fix this atrocity just as soon as we get back to the mansion!”

                “Peter!” Mystique’s voice rang out, and oh, good, the Hero had woken up in time to witness his humiliation.  “Get off of Kurt and sit down!”

                “No!  He needs comforting!  He just doesn’t know it yet!”

                Kurt snorted out a little laugh as Mystique got up to try and physically pull Peter off of him, but the other man was already back in his seat and looking perfectly innocent by the time she was on her feet.  She sat back down with a warming glare, and Jean stifled a giggle behind her hand as Scott looked on in confusion.  Peter nudged his shoulder against Kurt’s in silent reassurance, and blue lips quirked upwards in response.

                Perhaps Peter was right.  On this plane, with this strange collection of stranger individuals… Maybe it was exactly where he was supposed to be.

*Some weeks after the battle*

                ‘Peter, are you ready?’ Jean’s voice echoed in his head.  ‘We’re about to start.’

“Oh yeah,” the silver-haired boy said aloud, admiring his new costume in his room’s full-length mirror.  Hank had developed the material—extra-resistant to the friction and wear produced by his super-speed—but he’d made the costume himself during his frustratingly long recovery.  “I am _so_ ready for this, Red.”

                With a final wink to himself in the mirror (complete with finger guns, of course), Peter took off at full speed, relishing the feeling of his healed leg moving unrestricted by that loathsome cast.  He made his way to the newly-completed “Danger Room” (god _damn_ but they needed some more creative names around here), stopping abruptly with a crisp salute before a startled Mystique. 

                “Quicksilver reporting for duty, Ma’am!” he announced in his best approximation of a military voice, though the effect was likely ruined by the shit-eating grin on his face.

                “Go join the line-up, Maximoff,” she ordered, rolling her eyes, but Peter could tell that she was trying not to smile.  That line between charming and irritating was a fine one, indeed, but he was a pro at toeing it. 

                With another salute, he darted inside.  He grinned at Jean, high-fived Scott and Storm, and was about to take his place in the line-up when—

                *BAMF*

                —there was a puff of blue, acrid smoke, clearing to reveal a familiar blue form.

                “Jesus, Kurt!” Peter yelped, fanning away smoke and trying to act like he hadn’t just jumped half out of his skin.  “What the hell, man?”

                “Ah, sorry!” Kurt said, grinning sheepishly and swishing his tail.  “I did not mean to startle you.  I just did not want to be late.”

                “Late?” Peter repeated, feeling foolish, but certainly he didn’t mean—

                “Ja.  Late for training,” Kurt confirmed.  He shuffled awkwardly, and somehow Peter only now noticed the red-and-black training suit over the slim blue form.  “Do you… do you think I should not be here?”

                Red-gold eyes stared up at him, wide and imploring and vulnerable, and Peter shook his head frantically, his heart pounding because _damn_ , eyes that expressive should be illegal.  “No, no, glad you’re here, just… wasn’t expecting it, you know?  I know you don’t exactly _enjoy_ fighting.”

                “I do not,” Kurt agreed, his face serious.  “But if something like that happens again, I want to help.  I want to protect people—the children here, the team… you…”  He paused here, hesitating.  “I… I am sorry, about what he did to your leg.”

                Peter blinked at that, taken aback.  “You couldn’t have done anything to stop that, Kurt,” he said, genuinely perplexed.

                “No, I was unconscious,” Kurt agreed, nodding, his eyes shining with determination.  “Next time, I will not be.”

                A slow grin spread across Peter’s face, and he clapped Kurt on the shoulder.  “I’ll feel better knowing you have my back,” he said with sincerity.  “And you can damn well believe I’ll have yours.”

                Kurt smiled, fangs glinting in the dim light.  “And maybe after training, we can celebrate with those… _Twinkies_ you mentioned, ja?”

                “Oh, _shit_!” Peter cursed, loudly enough that Kurt jumped back, but Peter couldn’t contain his shock and horror at his own gross oversight.  “I can’t believe I forgot!  Hey, Mystique!  We need to get this show on the road—‘Crawler here has a _very_ important lesson to get to after this!  Do your speech thing so we can kick some robot ass already!”

                Kurt laughed, going to take his place in the line-up, and Peter did the same, practically bouncing in place as he waited not-so-patiently.  And if there was a certain eagerness afterwards, as he dragged a bewildered Kurt up to his room to be properly educated on the wonders of American junk food, well…  Twinkies were important to him.  And that was all he would admit to, for now.

*Epilogue*

                “…Oh mein _Gott_!”

                “I know, right?  Just wait until you try the Ho-ho’s…”

*End*


End file.
